turning twenty-two

Who were you when you were 12?

A decade ago now…

I read thousands of pages a week

Spent most of my time outside in the trees.

This year I want to find that little girl again.

I have at last admitted my life has been a series of the same cycles

Something made nearly every chapter stop abruptly or combust in flames

It was easy to blame

the place I was or the people I was with

at 22 I took a breath

It was my mind all along

—

I started my first journal the day I turned 11

My aunt gave it to me for Christmas, also my birthday

I think of her often

But she’s dead now.

In it I wrote I wanted to be the first woman president. And also a vet.

I used to carry around an encyclopedia of dogs. It was dark green, thousands of pages. Likely a few pounds. I can’t remember where I got it from but I remember the pages.

I studied that book for all of fourth grade. Even brought it to school in my backpack with me.

This memory tells me I’ve always been a project person. Always had ideas. Always wanted to do something about doing something.

I never became a vet. Add it to the list of many unfinished projects.

I also wrote, on that same day, that I wanted to become a better person. I underlined that.

I have always wanted to become a better person. It’s always a goal of mine. At times it’s been cast away like an unfinished project too.

I have begun every journal since then with lists and graphs. What are my current dreams? What do I like about myself? What do I hate about myself? Who do I want to become?

In that first journal, I also wrote down that I wanted to become a writer.

I stopped writing when I got to high school. From age 15 to 22 the only writing I’ve done has been academic or in my journals. Some of those journals, from the bad years, stopped short halfway through. A reflection of my brain. Stuck. Empty.

Starting this blog is me finishing up a project. I wanted to become a writer. The truth is I am a writer, I just told myself I shouldn’t be.

That’s the truth about those unfinished projects. They lay suffocated in plastic storage bins and shoved under the bed of so many rooms. They stopped because I got scared. I told myself it wasn’t my skill, wasn’t my thing, other people were better.

My high school//college mantra was, “doubt kills dreams.” All along I knew I was always my own mountain. I knew it was my own fears tying me to imaginary failures.

At last, I’ve realized it doesn’t matter if other people are better. I still want to try.

So this year, I strive to finish a project of 22 years in the making. Myself.

my journal entry from 2011